Beast of Beswick

by Amalie Howard

  “It’s good that ye’re taking Brutus out, my lady,” Patrick said, interrupting her thoughts. “He’s been chomping at the bit to get a good run in, ye ken.”

  “They’re happy here, then?” she asked with a tiny frown.

  “Of course. Ye ken they’re happy wherever ye are.” His frown matched hers. “There’s no telling what yer uncle would have done. Ye did the right thing, my lady.”

  Astrid sensed he wasn’t just speaking of taking the horses. She sighed and placed a hand on the man’s sleeve. “That remains to be seen. He’ll never suspect we came here, so we’re safe for the moment, but we cannot be indiscreet. Or anger the duke.”

  “Speaking of the devil,” Patrick murmured, and the hairs on her nape rose.

  Astrid whirled to see Beswick marching down the path from the manse, hat pulled low, but she could sense his irritation even as far away as he was. Her pulse escalated instantly at the sight of his large form bearing down on them. “You should go.”

  “Are ye certain?”

  “Yes, he won’t harm me. He’s a gentleman.”

  Patrick scowled. “So is Beaumont.”

  The two men were as different as night and day, and while Astrid was wary of the duke and his volatile humors, she did not think she was in mortal danger from him. At least for the moment. She nodded reassuringly and patted the groomsman’s arm. The duke’s stride increased until he was nearly running. “Go, please, Patrick.”

  He did not argue this time and disappeared just as the duke came to a seething halt in front of her while she tightened the cinches on Brutus’s saddle. Beswick was so angry, his golden eyes glowed like hot coals beneath the brim of his hat. Astrid was fascinated, though she did not know what she’d done to incur his ire, considering he’d been gone the whole week. She hadn’t been able to get an answer out of Fletcher or Culbert on his whereabouts.

  “Who the hell was that?” he said in his smoky rasp, his burning eyes following Patrick’s departure. The low, possessive pitch of it made her chest squeeze. “And just what do you think you are doing?”

  She patted the horse’s glossy flank and lifted a brow. “What does it look like I’m doing, Your Grace? I’m knitting a doily.”

  He opened his mouth and snapped it shut, those demon-hot eyes fastening on her and narrowing to pinpricks at her dig. A different sensation curled over her. Perhaps she shouldn’t provoke the beast more than necessary. “I’m going for a ride. Brutus needs the exercise, and I need fresh air.”

  A muscle jerked in his jaw, his eyes flicking to the stable. “Who was he? That man?”

  “Patrick is my groom.”

  His eyes glowered. “You treat your grooms so familiarly?”

  “He’s family,” she replied, wondering at the terse note in his voice but casting it off as part of his usual surliness. She did not presume to understand the man. Or his mercurial sulks.

  “I do not recall giving you leave to bring your help to my estate.”

  Astrid sobered instantly. “Patrick protected us. If you send him away, then we must go as well.”

  “Must you?” he murmured. She felt his gaze on her, sweeping her from head to toe along with a low rumble of disapproval, and she waited for the question that would inevitably come. “What the devil are you wearing?”

  “A riding habit, Your Grace.”

  Astrid saw no need to explain her unusual riding dress. It was what she wore to train and exercise the horses. Though it was far from acceptable for a highborn lady and she would not wear it in London, she’d learned early on that she needed both thighs to manage Brutus. As such, she’d designed the full-skirted trousers with their draped pleats herself to preserve modesty over a pair of breeches.

  Dragging his eyes away, Beswick changed the subject. “Fletcher said you’ve made good progress on the porcelain.”

  Astrid nodded but wasn’t surprised that the ever-efficient valet had reported on her job. She’d been astounded at the vastness of the late duke’s collection and the astronomical value of some of the pieces. When Fletcher had jokingly mentioned the duke’s love of indoor cricket, she’d been appalled.

  “Yes, your father’s pieces are rare.” She pursed her lips. “Perhaps a smidgen better than using them for cricket balls.”

  A smirk crept into a corner of his mouth. “In whose estimation?”

  “Christie’s in London, Your Grace.” Astrid allowed herself a small gratified smile. “They have agreed to host the sale after receiving my detailed letter on whose property it was to be auctioned. Apparently, your father was quite the famous collector. His collection will fetch a considerable sum.”

  “Donate the proceeds to charity.”

  Astrid felt her eyes pop. “You’re speaking of hundreds of thousands of pounds at least, Your Grace. Shouldn’t you put such a fortune in trust for your heirs?”

  “Heirs? Like the ones you offered to procreate?” His eyes fairly sparked heat, though his voice was silky, making the hairs on her nape stand at nervous attention. Other needy parts of her went soft and molten.

  Cheeks aflame, Astrid lifted her chin. “You declined, remember? That offer is no longer up for discussion.”

  Tension exploded between them as that golden-hot gaze scorched hers, burning past every defense she could possibly erect against him, but Astrid held her ground. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be nothing but a charred cinder by the time he was through with her.

  “I’ve been known to change my mind,” he said softly.

  Her mouth nearly fell open, but Brutus chose to rear and snap his teeth in the direction of the duke then, his eyes rolling slightly as if taking offense to Beswick’s suggestion and his mistress’s agitation. Astrid brought him smartly under control with a soothing sound, reaching for the reins. Beswick’s eyes focused on the enormous, skittish horse as if just seeing him.

  “You are not riding that beast.”

  Astrid’s eyebrows launched into her hairline, her own tense nerves snapping. “Brutus is mine, Your Grace, and I will ride him if and when I please.”

  “He is not a mount for a lady.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t order me about. I’m not one of your servants.”

  “Aren’t you?” he said coolly.

  “God, you’re insufferable!” She turned to lead Brutus away, though not toward the stables as he no doubt expected.

  His eyes narrowed as if guessing her intent, once she was out of his reach. “Astrid, I forbid it.”

  Oh, no, he did not! Without hesitation, she hopped nimbly on to the low fence where she’d directed the horse and climbed into the saddle. She heard the growl behind her, felt it in the marrow of her bones, but ignored it.

  Wheeling Brutus around and urging him into a gallop out of the yard, Astrid felt unburdened for the first time in days. She did not wait, nor did she care, to see how the duke had responded to her dismissal.

  Arrogant, controlling man.

  Chapter Six

  Thane stood stock-still in amazement—that reckless little harridan had just defied him. Swearing a blue streak, he stalked into the stable, making several grooms leap to instant attention.

  “Get me Goliath. Now,” he ordered.

  He scanned the space for the groom who’d been talking to her, but the redheaded man was nowhere in sight. Lucky for him. When Thane had seen her place her fingers on the man’s arm, he’d been unprepared for the surge of violence that had filled him.

  Rage? Jealousy? He hadn’t cared to examine the feelings, only acknowledging the fact that he’d wanted to snap the man’s arm in two.

  Seeing her had been both bliss and purgatory. It was as if he’d been starved for the sight of her. He’d gone to London to deal with the sale of one of his many properties in the city with Sir Thornton. And the minute he’d arrived there, he’d only wanted to leave. And the second he’d arr
ived back at Beswick Park, he’d sought her out. Though he knew maintaining distance was wise, given his erratic moods where she was concerned, Thane couldn’t help himself.

  Goliath was brought forward, and he mounted the thoroughbred with a wince of pain as his fatigued body pulled tight. He usually enjoyed a brisk ride, but not on days when he’d traveled hours in a cramped coach or forgone the daily swimming routines that kept him pain-free and limber.

  Thane grimaced, setting his horse after hers. It didn’t take the powerful Arabian thoroughbred long to catch up to her mount. Brutus. The aptly named brute that had tried to take a bite out of him was as unpredictable and as touchy as his mistress.

  Looking over her shoulder, she urged her horse on faster, rising into the stirrups. Thane caught wind of what echoed like her laughter, and the sound energized him. He couldn’t help but admire her expert posture and her graceful handling of the massive horse. Or the fact that the split skirts of those indecent trousers flared wide on either side of her, baring glimpses of trim legs wrapped in worn buckskin.

  Thane very rarely pushed Goliath to his limits, but he did so now. That stallion of hers had champion bloodlines; any idiot could see that. But then, so did Goliath. He had to admit the ride was exhilarating as he felt the bunching and elongating muscles of the animal beneath him.

  Unlike other horses bred of racing stock, Goliath no longer raced. The loyal steed had gone with him to war. Had borne him from danger when he’d collapsed in a ditch and been left for dead. It’d been a miracle that the horse had led him to a tiny hillside village in the Spanish countryside. The doctor there had taken one look at him and summoned the priest. But he’d survived. They’d both survived.

  Shaking his head clear of the past, Thane nearly collided with the lady and her horse, perched atop a hillock, acres of Beswick lands spread out below them. Patches of the lush green landscape were dotted with grazing sheep and tenant cottages, the sun climbing into the sky over the hills to the east making the bucolic scene a picturesque one, even to his jaded senses. But it was a windblown and smiling Astrid who took his breath away.

  The apples of her cheeks were rosy, and the elegant column of her throat was flushed with healthy color. The bright sunshine turned the tendrils escaping her tenacious coiffure to sun-burnished chestnut, and Thane wanted to sink his fingers in the silken mass of it. He wanted to loosen the rest of it from its pins and bury his face in it.

  “Goodness,” Astrid said. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “I suppose it’s better than the alternative,” he said, angry at his constant desire where she was concerned. “Fields soaked with blood.”

  Wide crystalline eyes met his as Astrid stared at him for a prolonged minute, but she did not respond. Thane appreciated the fact that she did not feel compelled to fill the air with unnecessary platitudes…about him being alive for a reason or some such.

  “War is a terrible thing,” she said eventually.

  He nodded, his scars pulling tight on his scalp and along his rib cage. The tug of lust faded away, only to be replaced by ghosts. Phantom pain fired along his nerve endings, the cuts of a thousand bayonets blooming, his lifeblood seeping away, the burn of a blade and the agonizing tug of thread. He acknowledged the pain, felt each one of his scars, but for the first time since he’d returned to England, he did not feel like burying himself six feet deep.

  It was…strange.

  They stared at the rolling countryside in a quiet, companionable silence.

  “Is this all yours?” she asked after a while.

  “Yes,” he said. “Beswick Park encompasses thousands of acres and has hundreds of tenants. You are one of many in my employ.”

  It was an intended barb.

  The small smile of wonder dropped from her face as she turned to him with a stony calm once more, that faithful composure battling every other emotion into line.

  He wondered what—or who—had made her that way. A stone queen, constantly on guard. He didn’t know much about her past, but he’d tasked Fletcher with finding out whatever he could…knowing one’s enemy and all that.

  Thane only knew from her own lips that she’d spent just the one Season in London. It made him also wonder why she’d remained unmarried even if she’d told him it was by choice. He simply couldn’t fathom some gentleman not snatching her up. She’d admitted that she was an innocent. Though she didn’t look like one at present. Now, on that horse, dressed in partial men’s clothing, she looked like a defiant warrior goddess. One who had blatantly disregarded him.

  “Do you disobey every command?” he asked.

  She stared down the length of her nose at him. “You are not my uncle or my husband, Your Grace. I do not have to obey you.”

  “But I am your employer,” he said.

  Her mouth flattened with mutiny. “That does not include dictating which of my horses I should or should not ride.”

  As if listening, her stallion reared, his feet pawing empty air in a fit of mischief. Raising herself slightly in the saddle, she hauled him under control with a firm click of her tongue and an expert touch on the reins. The skirts of her dress had parted when the horse had risen upward, baring her breeches-clad legs for a moment before she smoothed them into place. It brought Thane’s attention back to her odd if intriguing ensemble.

  “That doesn’t look like any women’s riding habit I’ve ever seen.”

  Astrid glowered at him. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I needed the extra mobility to manage my horses, and, well, it’s not the acceptable thing for a woman to wear trousers. The combination is of my own design, not unlike the harem pants of women in the east.”

  Thane’s mouth opened and closed—an act that was becoming common in her presence, it seemed. The image of her wearing the clothing of such women invaded his brain. The fabric she wore was not transparent, but it well could have been with the illicit direction of his thoughts. Her fitted breeches gave enough fodder for his imagination to sketch out a pair of trim legs, finely molded buttocks, and shapely hips draped in voluminous yards of gossamer, and Thane went instantly hard.

  Christ. He set his jaw, furious at his body’s response. “Regardless, when I give an order, I expect it to be followed.”

  Her eyes flashed. “While you may control all of this, Your Grace, you do not control me.”

  “Would you rather I send you and your sister packing back to your uncle?” Thane asked silkily. “Or to Beaumont?”

  He regretted it the minute he said it when her entire body reared back as if she’d been struck, but it was a matter of pride. He could not give in. Astrid stared at him, fists going white-knuckled on the reins and eyes teeming with furious emotion. He could feel the heat of them from where he sat, all fire and brimstone. But then suddenly, the anger drained from her face. It was as though the light—along with all her fight—had been leached out of her.

  He’d been the one to take it from her by threatening her sister, and suddenly, guilt daggered him. It was the only reason for his next words.

  “You will take a groom with you,” he said through his teeth. “Whenever you ride him on the estate.”

  Her eyes met his, and resentment, not gratitude, shone in them for a long moment before her eyelashes lowered with demure, if false, obeisance. As high-spirited as her stallion, she was not accustomed to taking orders from anyone, even though it was her place in life to do so. She would have been raised to be an aristocratic, biddable wife, but clearly, Lady Astrid did not fit that mold by a long shot.

  Thane bit back a smile. What he wouldn’t have given to have seen her in her first Season, putting all those society matrons in their place and offering crisp set-downs to the dandies who ventured too close.

  “Why didn’t you have more than one Season?” he asked abruptly.

  She kept her face trained on the hills in the distance. “My parents died.”


  “And after mourning?”

  She did not immediately respond, but he could see that she was thinking about the question. Thane waited. “It was clear to me during my first Season that another would not…gain the result I hoped for, and it made more sense to save the money for Isobel.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “What’s the point of this?”

  “Humor me.”

  “I was ousted from society, Your Grace, because of bad judgment.” She flushed deeply. “Isobel doesn’t deserve to be punished for my mistakes. And I want her to be happy. She deserves to be happy.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Her throat bobbed. “This isn’t about me.”

  “Why not?”

  It seemed like she was going to answer, but after a moment, she wheeled the stallion around and galloped back toward the manse. Thane stared at her retreating form with a thoughtful look. He’d seen loyalty in his men on the battlefield but had scarcely encountered it in the real world. The men and women of the aristocracy dealt in secrets and intrigues, and many a gentleman would sell his own brother if it meant some kind of gain.

  But not Lady Astrid. She would swallow the mountain of her pride whole if it meant protecting her sister. He admired that more than he cared to admit.

  …

  Insufferable, persistent beast!

  What could she say? That her own naïveté had destroyed any chance for happiness? That she’d trusted the wrong man? That said man was back and out for vengeance? Beswick would probably laugh in her face or tell her to stop caviling over trifles. As if her life were a trifling matter. God, he was unspeakable!

  Her chest heaving with exertion, Astrid threw the reins to a waiting groom and slid off the horse once she arrived back at the stables. Normally, she would groom Brutus herself, but she was far too agitated with the duke. How dare he? How dare he question her about her sister and her decisions? He was no one to her, no one to them.